


all the world's a stage

by raritysdiamonds



Category: Indie Music RPF, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 23:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1244164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raritysdiamonds/pseuds/raritysdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles has always known he belongs on a stage, but with Alex it feels like something so much more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the world's a stage

**Author's Note:**

> just a little ficlet I wrote in 2012 on tumblr...I think it was originally called "sweat" or something random like that - if you hadn't noticed, I'm terrible at titles. anyway, just thought I might as well stick it on here while I procrastinate on actually writing any new stuff!
> 
> all mistakes are mine, feedback is always loved, etc <3

As long as he can remember, Miles has loved being onstage; it’s his passion, in his blood, you might even say. The satisfaction of strapping on a guitar, stepping up to the mic, the moment of anticipation before the lights go down and, finally, the exhilaration of blasting out that music, as loud as it was always supposed to be…He can’t imagine wanting to do anything else. It didn’t matter how many bands he’d been in, how many shows they played or how depressingly few people turned up to see them, he’d still get that same rush. When he was up there, nothing else mattered.

 Now, though, with the Puppets – with Alex – it’s something else entirely. They’d always had this chemistry; from the first time they’d started writing together, the songs had flowed more naturally than – for Miles, anyway – they ever had before. But onstage it means everything; that indefinable spark transforms those songs –  _their_  songs, not the Rascals’ or the Monkeys’ – somehow brings them to life. They ring out around the venue, loud and clear, voices and guitars intertwining as easily as if they’d been playing together for years, and it might just be the best thing Miles has ever heard. He only has to look at Alex to know the feeling is completely mutual.

 It’s their almost telepathic connection that takes the songs new places; their eyes meet and Miles knows, instinctively, when to speed up or slow down, hard and fast or soft and delicate. He knows how it’s supposed to sound, and Alex knows, and there’s nothing like the feeling when it all comes together. They finish on a flourish, the crowd goes insane, but when he looks across the stage and sees Alex’s grin mirroring his own, his eyes sparkling, it’s as if – cliché as it sounds – they’re the only two people in the room. It’s then that Miles knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

What isn’t always  _entirely_  conductive to professionalism, however, is how Alex looks in the quieter moments, just him and a guitar under the cool blue lighting. How he concentrates, eyes half-closed, seemingly lost in the music, and all Miles can do is stare. Until Alex looks up, catches his eye and there’s an unmistakable jolt of electricity as a smile spreads across his face, breaking the intensity. Miles’ thoughts may wander to possibilities that _definitely_  aren’t in the setlist.

The pace picks up as the songs get faster, the crowd gets more excited, and sweat patches start to betray the fact that their black turtlenecks – although stylish – aren’t the most practical onstage attire. Miles is prepared to suffer for fashion, though, especially when Alex’s face is flushed, his hair starting to stick to the side of his face, but glowing with the thrill of playing together and it’s somehow still the sexiest thing Miles has ever seen. When they’re leaning in close to share a mic, noses brushing, hips bumping against each other accidentally-on-purpose, Miles occasionally has to remind himself that the audience didn’t pay for a live sex show. (Though at least some of them, he thinks, probably wouldn’t  _object_  to that, either.)

 He has to be content, then, with a final meaningful look before they finish, to rapturous applause. Backstage they’re immediately separated in a throng of people, all gushing about how good the show was, how great they sounded, how the songs are  _fucking amazing, man._

 Miles goes with it, chatting and laughing and hugging all his friends, promising to get them on the guestlist for next time. As he’s talking, though, he can’t help scanning the crowd – probably not too subtly, but there’s only one person he wants to see, one place he wants to be and one very specific activity he has in mind right now.

 Alex materializes eventually, to his relief, also surrounded by people, looking slightly embarrassed, as ever, but pleased by the attention. His face visibly lights up when he spots Miles across the room, and finally, they collide in a sweaty bear hug.

 It’s triumphant, looking for the rest of the room like a perfectly innocuous display of affection after a successful show – it’s what they  _do_ , after all. It’s also long enough for Miles to bury his nose in the crook of Alex’s neck, and hear him whisper three words:

 “Dressing room. Now.”

 Miles doesn’t need to be told twice; they beat a hasty retreat, excusing themselves with apologetic smiles and waves to the throng – but duty calls. And yes, Miles considers it his duty to finish what he’s started.

 They make it to the dressing room, door closing and tops swiftly removed and discarded to the floor. It’s a relief, to pull the sweat-soaked turtleneck over his head and feel the cool air against his body; and finally to watch Alex do the same, impatiently kicking it to one side as he pulls Miles into a passionate kiss.

 It’s desperate, urgent; hands tangled in hair, roaming over bodies, simultaneously too much and not enough. He’s overcome by the need to touch, to taste, to press Alex against the wall and lick the sweat from his collarbone; maybe it should be gross, but not when he’s making  _that_  noise, grinding their hips together like it’s been building to all night.

 Miles hears himself moan as Alex’s hands move lower, struggling with his belt buckle. He smirks at a faint mutter of “you wear these too fucking tight”, until Alex drops to his knees, the belt finally loosening, and then…

 And  _then_ suddenly there’s someone banging on the door, and they both freeze in position.

 “Lads! Are you ready yet?”

 He feels, rather than hears, Alex’s “oh, fuck” against his leg, and faintly recalls agreeing to some sort of interview – a prospect which, in retrospect, does not appeal nearly as much.

 Alex stands up far too soon, causing Miles to let out an involuntary whine.

 “Yeah, coming, just…give us a minute,” he calls, struggling back into his top.

Miles has a sudden urge to laugh at the choice of phrase; he has to bite his lip, avoiding looking at Alex because there’s a good chance that will set them both off. And he’s pretty sure bands aren’t supposed to have  _that_  much fun in the dressing room.

 He takes the opportunity to look in the mirror instead, hoping his ruffled hair and flushed face will be put down to the thrill of playing live, rather than arousing any suspicion. He can’t help smirking seeing Alex do the same, attempting to smooth his hair which is now sticking up all over the place.

 Smiling like idiots at each other in the mirror, Alex leans in to press a chaste kiss to Miles’ nose, murmuring, “Later, yeah?”

 Miles nods, straightening up. For now, he thinks, he’s just about ready to meet his public. He lets Alex leave first, waiting just long enough before following.

 Miles belongs on a stage, but it turns out you can have a lot of fun off of one, too.


End file.
